Le Vie de Mordred
by jessewrites
Summary: Arthurian Legend: The story Mordred ap Arthur, and the comedy of errors that led to him being marked traitor and coward. Because history depends entirely on the view of who writes it down.
1. Of Mordred's Childhood

Title: Le Vie de Mordred

Author: Jesse

Rating: PG-13

Warning: violence

Disclaimer: not mine, no money made

Summary: The story Mordred ap Arthur, and the comedy of errors that led to him being marked traitor and coward. Because history depends entirely on the view of who writes it down.

Of Mordred's Childhood and How He Came to Camelot

He had heard the stories about how Arthur had drowned the May children. He just assumed that it was the year after he was born and the tellers were confused. Or maybe the fact that his mother was Arthur's half-sister had saved him. Besides, he wasn't going to be the one who betrayed Arthur. He'd never met his uncle (he could hear his mother's voice, hissing _Don't call him that_ even though his brothers all did) but every story Mordred had ever heard made him a hero, and even if he was painfully aware where his brothers were not that their mother did not like the king, he knew he could never betray a man who had done such good things for so many people, for Britain. But his loyalty to the king of Britain was a question for another day. For now, he could hear the sounds of a brewing fight in the training yards.

"Shut up, you miserable twerp!" That was Agravaine's voice.

"Please stop," Gaheris said hesitantly.

Mordred rounded the corner and found his second-oldest and youngest brothers standing over one of the smaller boys who had come to Lot for training as knights. "What's going on here?" he asked softly.

Agravaine barely glanced at him. Mordred may have had three years on Agravaine, but the younger boy had four inches and forty pounds on Mordred, who stood only five foot five and was slender and wiry, not broad and built like the Orkneys.

"He ran into Agravaine," Gaheris said nervously. The youngest of the Orkneys hero-worshipped all of his older brothers, but was a little afraid of Agravaine and his bullying tendencies.

Mordred nodded, smiling gently at Gaheris, who was the closest of the Orkneys to him despite the difference in their ages, silently letting him know that he would take care of it. "It was an accident," he said, not a question.

"I'm sorry," the poor boy stammered. "I wasn't looking."

"Look closer next time," Agravaine snarled, backhanding him.

"That's enough, Agravaine," Mordred snapped, voice cracking like Lot's horsewhip. "You want to hit someone, hit me." He stepped forward, putting himself between Agravaine and the boy, who was probably only twelve or thirteen. At eighteen, Mordred was long overdue for knighthood, but Lot refused to knight 'the bastard' as he called Mordred, and no wandering knight had come this way in many seasons. Mordred would travel to Camelot for his knighting as soon as Gawain was ready to accompany him.

"Shut up, you bastard," Agravaine snapped, backhanding Mordred.

The blow barely jarred the dark-haired young man, though blood blossomed on his lower lip. Lot struck a harder blow than his son, and Mordred had long since learned to take a beating.

There was a stunned silence on the group of boys, who had been spoiling for a fight as soon as Mordred stepped into the yard. No one called Mordred bastard except Lot, a fact that had been made abundantly clear by a series of quick, quiet beatings that never reached the ears of the trainers.

Mordred looked coolly up into Agravaine's eyes, his own grey gaze sharp and dangerous. "That was a mistake," he said quietly.

Gaheris stepped forward, gasping in a rush, "He didn't mean it, Mordred, I'm sure he didn't. It was just the heat of the moment."

Mordred's gaze touched Gaheris' desperate face and terrified eyes. "Gaheris," he said gently rebuking, "Have I ever given you reason to fear me?"

Gaheris shook his head.

"I'm not going to hurt your brother. I long ago promised Mother I would never lay a hand on any of you." Mordred's lips curled into a dangerous smile and he met Agravaine's eyes squarely. "It was for my safety that she made me promise, because Lot would've killed me if I had touched any of you. We all know Lot's feelings for me." Mordred's smile turned dark. "But we also know how Mother feels about me, don't we?"

Agravaine paled. Morgause' favouritism for Mordred was the stuff of legends at Orkney castle and he would catch it from his mother for hitting Mordred, and worse for calling him a bastard, even if it was the truth.

Mordred winked and walked away.

The boy scrambled to catch up with him. "Thank you," he said, chewing his lip.

Mordred shook his head. "It was nothing. Agravaine's a bully and doesn't like to face up to what he does. What's your name?"

"Dylan, of Wyre. Is it true you don't know your father?"

Mordred blinked in surprise. He knew, in theory, that the younger boys were curious about him, but to be presented with this curiosity still surprised him. "It's true," he said after a moment.

"Oh," Dylan said quietly. "I'm sorry."

Mordred was surprised again. The usual reaction to his bastard status was scorn, not pity. "What for?"

Dylan blushed. "For not knowing your father. I- Every time Sir Lot yells at me, I just remind myself about my father and how good a man he is and that he'd want me to do well. I guess I'm just sorry you don't know what it's like."

Mordred felt a pang of sadness, not for the first time, but he tried not to think about what his life would have been like if he had had a real father instead of just Lot. It would make him bitter, which was something he did not want. "Me too," he said quietly.

"Master Mordred," a servant called from the door to the kitchen.

Mordred turned. "Yes?"

"Your Lady Mother is asking for you, when you're cleaned up."

Mordred smiled. "Thank you, Aodhan." His disfavour with Lot meant that the nobility, except his Mother, scorned him as well, and from childhood, he had known the servants better than those who should have been his peers. He winked at Dylan and turned inside.

The cook swatted him with her spoon when Mordred swiped a slice of bread as he ducked through the kitchen. "Getoutta here, Master Mordred," she laughed, shooing him away.

Mordred grinned at her, chewing the bread. He turned down the servants' hall, because it was faster, and because it ensured he would not run into Lot or his friends. He stepped into the public hall only feet from his mother's chambers. He knocked once, clearly. "Mother?" he called.

"It's open, dearest."

Mordred let himself in, finding his mother at the loom. "You wanted to see me?"

"Iona was watching training today and said that Agravaine hit you." Iona was Morgause's handmaid.

Mordred raised one eyebrow. News travelled quickly here. "He was bullying a younger boy for no reason. I got into the middle of it and he backhanded me."

Morgause seemed to be waiting for more.

"He called me a bastard," Mordred said quietly.

Morgause's face remained impassive. "It's true."

"I know that, Mother." Mordred met her gaze squarely. Whatever he had said to Agravaine, he had actually never had any intention of telling his mother what Agravaine had said, though he would have had to explain the split lip somehow.

"He will be dining with the servants for the next fortnight."

Mordred blinked. Morgause had known and already taken care of things. For proud Agravaine, this punishment was worse than a beating. "What did they do to deserve that?" Mordred asked, instead of commenting.

Morgause smiled, eyes flashing, pleased. "Lot wants you to squire at the feast tonight."

Mordred blanched. "What did _I_ do to deserve that?" Though, he realised, Agravaine would have to miss the feast; he would be furious.

Morgause frowned at him. "This is an opportunity to make them see you, dearest. Do well, make me proud, and I will answer your question."

Mordred's breath caught. He asked her, at every opportunity, who his father was, but she had always refused to tell him. He nodded slowly. He did not mention that it was just another opportunity for Lot to lord his status over him. He would do his best, and he would finally know the truth.

The feast went fairly well for the most part, a few tense moments with Lot notwithstanding, until the food was finished and Mordred went around filling wine goblets. As he was serving Lot, last of the table, the man nearest shifted and accidentally bumped Mordred's elbow, making him spill a few drops on the table.

"Clumsy," Lot snarled, backhanding Mordred.

The blow sent Mordred tumbling and he dropped the pitcher, spilling the wine. Mordred lay on the floor, ears ringing, tunic soaked with wine.

"Whoa," the lord next to Lot said. "It was my fault, Lot, don't hit the boy."

"The bastard needs to learn," Lot snapped. "Clean this up, boy."

Mordred's jaw clenched. Never mind that he was eighteen and a man, and older than Gawain, who Lot had long since stopped calling 'lad,' he was always boy. "Yes sir," he gritted out. Now was not the time for another row with his foster-father. Still trembling with rage, Mordred found a rag and cleaned the mess, ignoring his irrevocably stained shirt and tunic.

Irvin, Lot's squire, brought a fresh pitcher and took a post near the window. He caught Mordred's eye and nodded at the door.

Mordred raised one eyebrow.

Irvin nodded and mouthed, 'I've got it, go.'

Mordred nodded his thanks and went to change. When he emerged from his dressing room in a clean shirt and tunic, his mother was sitting on his bed. "Mother," he said quietly.

Morgause stood and crossed the small room to Mordred, taking his head between her hands and tilting it towards the torch on the wall, examining the purpling bruise on his cheekbone. "You did well," she murmured, pressing gently into the bruise.

Mordred hissed in pain but did not fight.

Morgause produced a salve from somewhere and rubbed the pungent ointment into the bruise on the sharp line of his cheekbone, as well as the fading yellowish one on his jaw from Agravaine.

Mordred slid his tongue into the slight gap behind his left canine, the only nervous habit he allowed himself, since no one could see it. He waited silently for his mother, for she would not say anything until she chose, and would wait if she thought he was being too impatient.

"Just so you know," Morgause said conversationally. "I seduced him."

Mordred nodded slowly, absorbing this. It meant that what she was going to tell him would surprise him, and his first reaction would be disbelief that his mother would sleep with the man, and she wanted to head off confusion. Grey eyes caught and held the bewitching green of his mother's.

Morgause smiled viciously, whispered, "_Arthur_," in his ear and swept out of the room.

Mordred felt his knees give and distantly felt himself hit the floor. His ears were rushing and he was not sure he was not going to throw up. The _king_? His _uncle_? He felt ill. _A child born on the first of May will bring your kingdom to its knees._ His father had tried to kill him. Did he even know? How could he sleep with his sister? Had he known that?

Mordred stumbled to the bucket in the corner, emptying his stomach.

"Mordred, are you well?" Gaheris asked quietly. "Irvin mentioned father hit you. Did he hurt you?"

Mordred shook his head, unable to speak, retching helplessly.

"Mordred?" Gaheris whispered. Fear was thick in his voice. "Should I fetch mother?"

"No," Mordred choked. He could not face her, not yet. "I'm alright," he murmured, quelling his stomach by force of will. No use scaring Gaheris because he could not deal with what he knew. He stumbled to the pitcher of wine, swilled some around his mouth, and spat in the bucket. "I'm okay," he repeated, sounding slightly more human.

"What is it?" Gaheris asked. He could always tell when something was wrong with his eldest brother.

Mordred dropped onto his bed and gestured for Gaheris to sit beside him. "Mother talked to me."

Gaheris looked concerned. All of Lot's children had a healthy dose of fear for their mother, loved her certainly, but were afraid of her too. "Are you in trouble?"

Mordred shook his head. "She told me who my father is."

Gaheris chewed his lip. "Isn't that a good thing?"

Mordred shrugged. "It made a lot of things made sense, but it opened up a lot more questions, too."

Gaheris nodded. "Do you want to talk it out?"

Mordred pursed his lips, thinking. On one hand, talking might help him sort out his feelings, but on the other, he was not sure Gaheris was the one to talk to. He was sure he did not want to corrupt Gaheris any more than he already was. With Agravaine for a brother, it was impossible the Gaheris did not know where babies came from, but Mordred did not want to further his education in that vein any. He was only twelve, after all.

"You don't hafta tell me," Gaheris said, sounding a touch hurt.

"No, Gaheris, it's not that. It's just- it's messy," he said finally. "I don't really understand."

"Talk to me. Talk to Gawain, but don't just hold it all in. You always tell me to talk when things bother me."

Mordred ruffled Gaheris' hair. "That I do." He paused, considering how much to tell his little brother. "I'm pretty sure Mother hates him," he said quietly, "So I don't understand why she- why she had me with him, unless it was to get at him, and I'm not sure how comfortable I am being a vessel for mother's revenge."

"Maybe she doesn't really hate him?" Gaheris suggested.

Mordred shook his head. "It's the king, Gaheris. Arthur."

Gaheris turned white. "Wha- how?"

Mordred nodded. "That's about what I said," he admitted. "She said she seduced him." He swallowed. "I just don't understand, Gare, why?"

Gaheris hugged him tightly and Mordred dragged the younger boy into his arms and pressed his face into Gaheris' hair.

"I didn't want it to be me," he said brokenly. "I don't want to betray him."

Gaheris hugged him tightly. "I don't believe in fate, 'Dred. You don't hafta do anything you don't want to."

Mordred smiled gamely down at Gaheris. "I wish it were that easy."

Gaheris shrugged. "You don't want to betray him; don't."

Mordred nodded, the idea warming him despite the fact that _Merlin_ had prophesied it, and the old man had never been wrong. "Good idea, Gaheris," he said softly, wishing it could be the truth.

Mordred mounted the grey courser that had been a gift from his mother in honour of his eighteenth winter, watching Gawain mount his own horse beside him.

Agravaine watched sullenly from beside Lot, while Gareth and Gaheris clutched at Mordred's and Gawain's hands, calling their farewells. Lot had made his farewell speech to Gawain and was pointedly ignoring Mordred. Morgause was in her rooms, refusing to watcher her eldest sons leave Orkney.

The men-at-arms Lot was sending with them were ready, and Mordred wheeled his horse towards the gate and felt his brother fall in beside him.

"To Camelot," Gawain said.

Mordred grinned at him. "To Camelot."

"Are you glad to be getting out?"

Mordred looked at him. "What?"

"Are you glad to be getting away from father," he clarified. "Going to court, where people don't need to look at you askance, and no one can beat you without you having the right to hit them back."

Mordred shrugged. Honestly, he was not sure if he was ready to go to court. He knew he was ready for knighthood, but there were other concerns on his mind. "They'll still look at me askance, when I'm introduced as Mordred, son of Morgause."

Gawain grimaced. "True enough, but I bet no one will say anything. I bet you'll be one of the finest knights at court. You're better than me, and father says I'm the best he's seen."

Mordred laughed. "Me? With knights like Lancelot and Tristan around? And Lancelot's son's almost sixteen now? No one will notice me."

Gawain shrugged. "You're the king's oldest nephew though. As long as he's childless you're the heir."

Mordred stared at Gawain. "Don't you know? He named Galahad his heir almost a year ago."

Gawain looked indignant. "It should be you!"

Mordred shook his head. "It should be you, little brother. I don't count."

Gawain looked stunned. "Me? Better Galahad, who's lived his whole life at court."

"He hasn't actually," Mordred said. "He came to court when he was twelve, after his mother died, looking for his father. Everyone, even Lancelot, was surprised when it turned out he was Lancelot's bastard."

"He's a what?" Gawain stopped his horse to stare at his older brother. "If he's a bastard too, why don't you count?"

Mordred snorted, dryly amused. "Because I don't have the privilege of being the King's best friend's son. If he named me heir, it would be one thing, but for the line of succession, the bastard son means nothing. Even a daughter, if Lot had one, would inherit before me."

Gawain shook his head wonderingly, scarcely able to believe the unfairness of it.

Mordred just reached over and ruffled his brother's hair, chuckling slightly. He was used to it.


	2. Of the Happy Years

Title: Le Vie de Mordred

Author: Jesse

Rating: PG-13

Warning: violence

Disclaimer: not mine, no money made

Summary: The story Mordred ap Arthur, and the comedy of errors that led to him being marked traitor and coward. Because history depends entirely on the view of who writes it down.

Of the Happy Years and Mordred's Place in Camelot

When he and Gawain and their retainers rode into Camelot, there was a small group awaiting them, which probably should not have surprised Mordred. The two of them dismounted, passing their reigns off to the hostlers standing by, and turned to the knight at the welcoming party's head.

"Welcome to Camelot," he greeted politely. "You're Morgause and Lot's sons?"

Mordred and Gawain exchanged glances, deciding whether to correct him.

Before they could, he spoke again. "Gawain and Agravaine, yes? I'm Lancelot."

This, Mordred had to correct. "I'm Mordred," he said quietly. "Morgause's oldest. It's an honour, Sir Lancelot."

Lancelot tilted his head slightly. "I was told Lot's oldest son's name is Gawain."

"I'm Gawain," Gawain said, taking pity on the older knight's confusion. "I am Lot's eldest. Mordred's my half brother."

Lancelot blinked. "Of course, forgive me. Welcome, both of you. The King wishes me to bring you to his presence, if you're willing. Of course, if you'd like to freshen up, I'll take you to the quarters you've been assigned."

Gawain looked at Mordred questioningly.

Honestly, Mordred wanted to put off meeting the King for as long as he could, but he inclined his head. "We're at the King's pleasure, Sir Lancelot. We stayed at an inn last night, so we've no need to go to our rooms."

Lancelot smiled. "Well then, the servants will take your things, and you can follow me."

Mordred and Gawain fell in with Lancelot and followed him. Lancelot pointed things out, and told short anecdotes, helping the two of them get accustomed to the castle. "It's a bit hard to keep track of at first," he explained with a wink.

Mordred and Gawain exchanged private grins. They liked the friendly knight.

Facing the door of what was obviously the throne room, Lancelot looked at the pair of them. "Don't be offended, please," he asked Mordred. "But, given my confusion earlier, I don't want to introduce you wrongly."

Mordred smiled kindly, understanding the knight's dilemma. "Mordred, son of Morgause," he said.

Lancelot nodded firmly, no trace of disgust or pity in his face, only acceptance of fact.

Mordred found he like Lancelot even better for it.

Lancelot pushed the door open and walked in, discreetly gesturing the boys to follow him.

Mordred took in the room at a glance. There were fewer courtiers than he expected. The King and Queen sat enthroned at the head of the room, but the thrones were neither ornate nor gaudy, seemingly designed for comfort and utility. There were chairs scattered about the room and as many hunting dogs as people. It was as far from Lot's court as anything Mordred had imagined.

Arthur was sitting on his throne, Guinevere beside him, keen eyes watching them cross the floor. Mordred was not certain, as those grey eyes pierced through him, that he was not going to be sick.

"May I present Mordred, son of Morgause and Gawain son of Lot," Lancelot was saying, giving both his King and Queen the formal introductions before his stance shifted into a much more informal stance.

Mordred thought he could see confusion in Arthur's eyes. And then shock.

Both Guinevere and Lancelot were shifting uneasily at the King's silence, the Queen nudged him gently. When it became apparent he was still frozen, she rose quickly and crossed to them.

"Welcome," she cried, "Welcome to Camelot!" She kissed Mordred cheek.

Mordred managed to murmur his thanks, wondering bemusedly if she would be so welcoming if she knew the truth.

Then the king stepped in front of him and their eyes caught and held. Mordred could see the baffled shock in Arthur's face and froze. Could he know?

"Son," Arthur whispered.

Mordred jolted. He knew. How could he know?

Distantly, Guinevere and Lancelot were voicing confusion,

"I-" Mordred stammered. He had not expected Arthur to know, to recognise. How could he stay with that knowledge, seeing the disgust in his king's eyes every time he looked at him?

Arthur hugged him tightly. "Son," he whispered.

Mordred went tense, not expecting the embrace. The warmth, the fierceness, the _joy_ in the hug momentarily left him breathless, then he found the words he needed. "Father," Mordred murmured, muffled into Arthur's chest, and relaxed into it. Arthur wanted him as his son.

"Arthur," Lancelot said softly. "Seriously. What?"

Arthur, one arm still wrapped around Mordred's shoulders, turned to look at his wife and closest friend. "You remember when Morgause came to court?" he asked evenly.

"Of course," Lancelot said, something tense in his voice Mordred did not understand. And then Lancelot looked back at Mordred and the pieces fell together. "Eighteen years," he whispered.

Guinevere shook her head. "I don't understand."

Lancelot said softly, "I told you about Morgause." His look was pointed and Guinevere's eyes widened in understanding, mouth in an 'oh'.

Mordred watched, concerned. Was Guinevere going to hate him?

Guinevere, after a moment of surprised shock, came forward and kissed Mordred's cheek again. "It's good to meet my husband's son," she said, squeezing his shoulder warmly.

Mordred almost fainted with relief.

Arthur turned to Gawain, then. "I don't mean to ignore you, Gawain," he said gently. "I'm very glad you're here as well."

"I understand, Sire. It's not every day you meet your son." His gaze on Mordred said pretty clearly, 'Why didn't I know this?'

Mordred ducked his head, apology in his eyes. That was not going to be a fun conversation.

"Dine with us tonight," Arthur invited. "As a family. Let me get to know the young men I'm proud to be related to."

A family. The very idea that he could have a family he belonged in—the Orkneys notwithstanding; he loved his brothers dearly, but Lot would not countenance affection—brought such a lump to his throat so think he could not find the words.

"We'd be honoured, Sire," Gawain answered when it became apparent Mordred's voice still was not working.

"I'm sure you want to rest up. You've had a long journey," Guinevere said.

Gawain nodded because Mordred was busily examining everyone's boots.

"Gawain, Mordred, this is Sir Kay, my steward. Kay, my nephew Gawain and my son Mordred," Arthur said, beckoning another man forward.

Mordred's head jerked up, but he very quickly wiped all expression from his face. That Arthur would introduce him that way, claim him so completely so soon sent a little thrill through him.

"A pleasure, lords," Kay said.

"Do you mind showing them to their rooms? There was a misunderstanding in the letter from my sister. Agravaine hasn't joined us yet; we got Mordred instead."

"A fair trade, My Lord," Kay said easily. "I'll just put Master Mordred in the room prepared for Agravaine, then."

"More than fair trade," Gawain answered with a smirk, instinctively knowing this was something he could get away with here. "Mordred's far more even-tempered than Agravaine."

"Even better." Kay smiled. "If you'll follow me."

"Sir Kay," Gawain asked as they left, Mordred still silent beside him. "You're the King's foster brother."

Kay grinned. "Indeed. You know your family history well."

Gawain grinned in return, quicksilver and lightning, keeping the attention on himself rather than his brother's uncomfortable silence. "Mother never talked about the King, so we compensated by finding out as much about him as we could."

Mordred was more grateful than he could express for Gawain's interference.

Kay laughed. "As boys will, I know. When I was a boy, my father took to ordering me not to do things because it was the only way to get me to do my chores. Took me perhaps a little too long to figure it out. Here you are, side by side. There's a door between your quarters. We thought you'd be more comfortable that way. If you don't like it, it does lock from either side."

"Our thanks," Mordred said quietly; shock was well and good, but he should not be rude.

"A pleasure," Kay said. "I'll leave you to it."

Mordred, rather than go into his own room, followed Gawain into his. "I'm sorry," he said as soon as the door was closed.

"I'm not mad," Gawain said. "Just curious. Why didn't you tell me?"

Mordred sank onto the bed. "I just found out a fortnight before we left. After the feast, when Lot blacked my eye?"

Gawain nodded; he remembered.

"Mother told me that night. I couldn't- I couldn't tell anyone until I had it straight. Well, except Gaheris."

Gawain smiled slightly. Of anyone in the world, Mordred would tell Gaheris, just as their youngest brother told Mordred everything. "And she dumped this on you now?"

Mordred nodded. "I can't figure why. I don't think he knew."

"What tipped you off," Gawain said sardonically. "Him turning speechless at the sight of you?"

Mordred smiled. "Yeah, I guess."

Gawain shook his head. "I'm not mad," he reassured Mordred. "Now go get dressed for dinner. We want to make good impression, don't we?"

Mordred smiled, squeezed his shoulder, and ducked through the adjoining door.

Time passed quickly at Camelot, far more so than at Orkney, and though Mordred felt he had scarcely blinked since his knighting three days after his arrival, in truth it had been nearly a month. A month he had spent mostly in the company of Arthur, Lancelot, and Gawain, though he had gotten to know many of the knights of his father's Round Table. He was particularly fond of Sir Tristan, a knight from Cornwall who was one of the few close to his age. Like Galahad, most of the knights of Mordred's generation were away from court—questing, like Galahad, or in their own kingdoms, like Percival and Lamorak.

His time training with Gawain, Tristan, Bedivere, Kay, and the others was by far the most fun. His time with Arthur was the most instructive and the most meaningful.

His father—and it had not taken long for 'father' to replace 'Arthur' and 'the King' in his mind—surprised him. Mordred had never expected the way the King's eyes darkened with fury when Mordred mentioned, in telling a story of one of his mishaps with Gawain, that Lot had struck him. Arthur had immediately demanded to know how often Lot had beaten him, and why. The second, even more furious, "And your mother allowed this?" stymied him further.

Arthur had immediately seen Mordred's skill with weapons, as he had taken and passed the test put to all young men seeking knighthood in Camelot. At their second meal together, this time just Arthur, Guinevere, and Mordred, Arthur had asked him questions dealing with strategy—he had deemed Mordred above average at this—and leadership. Finding Mordred somewhat lacking in understanding what made a country, a castle, and a people tick, Arthur decided that two days a week, Mordred would accompany him on his duties, and they would discuss what Arthur had done.

"Why?" Mordred had asked.

"Because if anything happens to Galahad on his quest, you will be my heir, and I must know that Camelot is in good hands."

Mordred had been speechless.

Now, three weeks in, Mordred felt he had gained something of a clearer understanding what it meant to be a king, and was more impressed than ever with his father's skill. But one thing confused him.

"I know you can't be blind to it," he said quietly. It was a quiet day, and they were in Arthur's study, Arthur had been working on supplies for the coming winter, Mordred periodically doing sums for his father on a scrap of parchment, but they had both fallen out of work. Arthur had told some stories of his tutelage under Merlin and Mordred was staring out the window.

"Blind to what?" Arthur asked, leaning against the sill next to Mordred.

Mordred nodded down to the gardens below, where Lancelot was sitting on the ground next to the bench Guinevere occupied. "Why turn a blind eye?"

Arthur shifted until he was leaning one shoulder on the wall beside the window, facing Mordred's profile as the younger stared out the window. "We've been learning about the duties of a king," Arthur said.

Mordred nodded, fully prepared to let his father turn his answer into a lesson. He loved learning from Arthur, everything he could teach. "Honour, fairness, care, and respect."

Arthur nodded. "But there's one very important duty we haven't discussed. A duty I've struggled with all my reign."

Mordred frowned, looking out at Lance and Gwen. He glanced at his father out of the corner of his eyes, catching the pointed look in his own direction and it clicked all at once. "An heir!"

Arthur smiled warmly. "Very good, son." He sighed. "At this level, we don't always have the luxury of marrying for love. Some manage it, and more power to them. Most don't. A marriage of convenience is all one can ask. Gwen is one of my dearest friends, a confidant. But there's never been any passion between us, not that way. She wanted away from her father and didn't want a husband who would mistreat her. I needed a Queen everyone could like and I needed an heir. Gwen and I made friends immediately, and though we both knew there'd never be that spark, it was better than the alternative. Fifteen years ago, now," Arthur said reflectively. "And it's apparent to all that we're childless.

"And Lance, Lance has been my brother in arms since we were young. Since I was a boy king on a throne I knew not what to do with. He's carried me when I couldn't carry myself, and had my back when I couldn't watch it. And they love each other. Who am I to deny them that?"

Mordred nodded slowly, looking down at the pair. Gwen was laughing, lit by joy. Lance had a serene smile on his face, eyes, even at the distance, bright with love. "Naming Galahad heir… eased things, didn't it? Since there was no more pressure about her getting pregnant?" Mordred had heard the stories of Lancelot's madness told along with the mutterings about Galahad's begetting. It had not taken long at court for Mordred to realise that the guilt that had driven the other knight mad was from his affair with the queen.

Arthur nodded, a proud smile curling the corners of his mouth. "It did," he agreed. "Though I wish I'd known then what I know now."

Mordred tilted his head in question.

"Galahad's a good knight, but he'll be a poor king," Arthur explained. "My other choice was Gawain, but I'd never met him. I knew Galahad's flaws and hoped that with time I could mute them, but," he trailed off.

"But now you see Gawain would be better?" Mordred asked, confused by the whole issue.

Arthur barked a startled laugh. "No! Gracious, you've no self-esteem at all, have you?" he asked, looking as though he could not decide whether to be worried or amused. "I meant you."

"Me?" Mordred spluttered.

"Yes." Arthur sighed. "Look, Galahad's a good knight. He's chivalrous, skilled, and loyal. But he's no leader, because he's always been alone. He's pious to a fault, and many people find it irritating and self-righteous. And he's a little too in love with his own chastity. He'd never marry. Even for the good of the country. He'd never be able to settle a quarrel, because all he'd do was preach until both sides managed to agree on one thing: to kill him. And the first time an enemy invaded, he'd lose the respect of his knights because he wouldn't be able to lead them into battle."

Mordred nodded. He understood that bit.

"Gawain's equally skilled as a fighter, and equally chivalrous, but he lets his temper get away with him. He'd start a war unnecessarily. He can be too coarse, and would alienate the lord who live on ceremony, which is most of them. He's selfish too, bless him. As a knight it matters little as long as he doesn't let that selfishness interfere with chivalry, and he doesn't. But it makes a poor king. And you know as well as I that he doesn't really have the attention span."

This was true enough. Gawain hated to be trapped indoors all day.

"And Mordred, you're even tempered. You smooth over quarrels without seeming to think on it, with a mix of empathy, understanding, and steel backbone—I suspect it comes from having four younger brothers. The other knights respect you as a warrior, a tactician, and a man. I know from stories Gawain has told that you're more than willing to sacrifice yourself—comfort, time, or what have you—for those under you. And I've seen you come into yourself as a leader these last few lessons. I can think of no one I'd rather succeed me than you, and I'm proud to call myself your father."

Mordred could feel the heat in his face and ducked his head. "I- I don't know what to say," he whispered.

"Say you believe me," Arthur answered, equally soft. "Say you'll accept my praise as your due and forget the false inferiority Lot's drilled into you."

Mordred turned to look into Arthur's eyes, taking in the earnestness, the honesty, the pride and the love, and nodded slowly. If Arthur believed it, maybe it was true.

Between minor crises—famine, threats of war, evil knights kidnapping women, and things of that nature—and feast days, the years seemed to pass in fits and starts. Arthur started sending Mordred as an emissary when things needed settling, knowing his son could handle just about anyone and anything. Outside Camelot, Mordred's reputation as a skilled knight and a good man grew. Inside Camelot, Mordred found his place more and more often to be at Arthur's left hand. Lancelot, of course, was the right.

"Lance is my sword arm," Arthur remarked once some years before, smiling fondly at Mordred, who was then just shy of his twentieth winter. "Which means you, my son, as my other hand, have to do everything else." And Mordred was more than happy to do it. He was happier in Camelot and out on missions for Arthur than he had ever been. Which meant of course something was about to happen to ruin it.

Gawain was back from his latest quest, across the channel this time. And hard on his heels rode three young men Mordred had not seen in years but would never fail to recognise.

"Mordred!" Gaheris shouted, catching him in a fierce hug.

Laughing, Mordred caught his youngest brother to his chest, then held him out at arm's length. He found he had to look up to meet Gaheris eyes. "Gaheris! Dear Lord, look at you!" The youngest of the Orkney clan was eighteen now, broad shouldered and tall like his brothers and father, but his hair was darker than his red-headed brethren, a shining auburn it had not been in his youth. He looked happy and well.

"Look at you," Gaheris countered. "News comes home periodically, and every time you're mentioned, father turns purple and throws the messenger out. We've lost a _lot_ of messengers in the last year."

Gareth shouldered Gaheris. "Come on, let me greet him too!"

Mordred hugged him happily. "Gareth! Welcome! And Agravaine," he called, grinning at the third brother, too pleased to see them to remember just how poorly he and the middle Orkney got along. "Father's going to want to meet you at once! Why didn't you send?"

Gareth laughed. "We did. But we overtook the messenger on the way. He should be in tomorrow or the next day."

"Oh, dear," Mordred said, snickering. "But, Heavens, you'll be here for your knighting?"

"Gareth and I are," Gaheris said, slinging an arm around Mordred's shoulders as they turned into the castle. "But Father knighted Agravaine himself last year. He's just here to swear to the king."

"He'll be glad to meet you. He's wondered a few times in the last few months if you lot would ever come to court. I'll take you there now, give Kay and the servants some time to get your rooms."

"Excellent," Agravaine said. It was the first word he had spoken since arriving, and given the set of his mouth, probably the last for a while.

"Gawain's around here somewhere," Mordred added after a moment of waiting to see if Agravaine had anything else to add. "Probably his rooms. He just got back from the continent yester'eve. Here we are. Just come in. He's not big on ceremony."

"Mordred," Arthur called as they walked in. "Kay says you went to greet the visitors? Oh, hello."

"Father, may I present to you Sir Agravaine of Orkney, and Gareth and Gaheris, sons of Lot of Orkney?"

Arthur rose and stepped down, grinning broadly. "At last, the rest of my nephews! Wonderful to meet you, welcome to Camelot." He clasped each of their arms, above the wrist. "Gwen will be so excited you've finally come."

"An honour, Sire," Gareth said diplomatically when it became clear Agravaine had nothing to say.

"Gareth?" Arthur asked. "And you're Agravaine, which would make you Gaheris?"

They nodded in sync.

Mordred grinned behind his hand, remembering his own first meeting with the king.

Just then, the doors swung open again to admit Kay and Gawain. Gawain lit up to see his brothers and hurried over. "Afternoon, Sire," he greeted Arthur, then turned at Arthur's nod to greet his brothers, hugging them all fiercely and all but jumping in his excitement.

Kay touched Mordred's elbow. "Their rooms are prepared, in the south wing, the floor below you. Gareth and Gaheris are the suite directly below you and Sir Gawain. Sir Agravaine has been put three doors down, between Meliant and Dagonet."

Mordred nodded, answering in the same low tone, 'Thanks, Kay."

Kay nodded and slipped out again, leaving the happy reunion as it was. Mordred, watching how Agravaine held himself aloof, could not help the churn of worry in his gut that something was about to happen.


	3. Of the Quest for the Holy Grail

Title: Le Vie de Mordred

Author: Jesse

Rating: PG-13

Warning: violence

Disclaimer: not mine, no money made

Summary: The story Mordred ap Arthur, and the comedy of errors that led to him being marked traitor and coward. Because history depends entirely on the view of who writes it down.

Of the Quest for the Holy Grail and Its Effect on Camelot

Galahad returned to Camelot two days later (and immediately won himself an enemy in Agravaine, and Gareth and Gaheris battled their own instinctive dislike to be comfortably distant, as Gawain and Mordred were). Two days after that, Mordred rode to a neighbouring village to settle a land dispute. He returned late that evening, to a castle abuzz with preparations.

"What's going on?" he asked Percival as the other knight hurried through the entrance hall.

"The Grail!" He cried, and rushed off, leaving Mordred to stare blankly after him.

Bedivere, watching from a corner, beckoned him over. "There was a miracle at dinner tonight." Mordred quirked an eyebrow, and Bedivere laughed. "Has anyone told you that you look exactly like My Lord when you do that? But at meal, the fires and candles went out all at once and a great light came into the room. It resolved itself into a chalice, filled the plates and goblets with wonderful food and drink, and then vanished."

"The Holy Grail," Mordred said, understanding.

"And many knights have elected to seek it. Your brothers, Sirs Galahad, Tristan, and Bors are at the head of those to go."

Mordred nodded. Of course his brothers would be at the heart of the quest. They lived for any kind of quest. "Thank you, Bedivere."

"Of course, Mordred."

"Will you go?"

Bedivere shook his head. "No, someone must stay and advise the King while everyone else rushes off on the quest he wishes he could ride out on."

Mordred frowned. "Is Lance going?"

Bedivere nodded. "I believe so."

"I'm staying," Mordred said firmly.

Bedivere looked surprised. "Really? I thought you'd want to go. It seems in keeping with your Hero of Camelot image."

Mordred snorted. "I'm needed here," he answered, keeping the rather unchivalrous reply, 'I'm a bastard, you dolt,' off his tongue by sheer will. He shrugged. "Is my father in his study?" Off Bedivere's nod, Mordred turned away. "Thanks."

"I have the list of those who stayed," Mordred said, walking into Arthur's study early the next morning. Arthur's head was down on his desk. Bedivere, in a chair across from Arthur, slumped over tiredly, deep rings under his eyes. Mordred knew he looked as bad. Preparations had lasted most of the night, and as the sun crested the horizon, the last of the Questing Knights had left.

"How many?" Arthur asked, muffled into his desk.

"Counting me and Bedivere? Twelve."

Arthur lifted his head. "Seriously?"

Mordred nodded, dropping into the other chair with an exhausted sigh. "Me, Bedivere, Dagonet, Kay, Pelleas, Lucan, Griflet, Erec, Geraint, Ector, Cador, and Pellinore."

Arthur sighed and shook his head. "Go to bed, Mordred, Bedivere. I have an audience this morning, and then I'm doing the same. We're all asleep on our feet."

"Sire, I protest," Mordred muttered. "I'm not on my feet and neither are you."

"Bed!" Arthur ordered, dragging himself to his feet with a groan.

Bedivere did the same, and they dragged Mordred vertical by the arms.

"Good day, Bedivere, Sire," Mordred managed, stumbling to the door. That brief rest had brought his exhaustion crashing down on him.

"Goodnight!" Arthur called after him. Mordred, as he sank into bed, spared the thought that perhaps this was the news he had sensed coming, and if so, it was not as bad as he had feared.

Winter was harsh that year, and it was in the early weeks of spring that the first knights returned, looking the worse for wear. That spring many messages came in from parts of the kingdom, bearing apologies and coats of arms taken from knights found dead. It was a hard spring, too, with daily news coming in of death and defeat for knights they knew, but with summer came Lancelot's return with good news. Lancelot himself was in a poor state, but Galahad thought he had a lead on the grail; Lionel and Percival were with him.

On the third day, when Lancelot finally emerged from his rooms, Arthur hugged his friend in the privacy of the study, with only Mordred at the desk, studiously examining crop reports. "I'm glad you're okay," Arthur murmured.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Lance asked, looking confused and guilty. He had not sat through the weeks of messengers, waiting to see if the arms sketched on the parchment would belong to a loved one.

Arthur just shook his head, hugged Lance again, and left the room, choked by his emotions.

"Mordred?" Lance asked softly.

"It was a long winter," Mordred answered. "And an even longer spring." He handed Lance a pile of parchment.

Lance looked at the top one. "Sir Tristan's arms. What is this?" He thumbed through the rest, noting a few arms as he did.

"Those are the messages brought to us this spring. People found the bodies of knights and sent to Arthur with the arms on the shield to let us know who was dead."

Lancelot closed his eyes. There were nearly thirty papers in the stack.

"It's been a long spring," Mordred repeated softly. He suddenly jerked away from the desk. "I can't sit here any longer."

"Spar with me?" Lance offered.

Mordred nodded. They went to the practice courts and picked up wooden practice swords.

"Your brothers?" Lance asked tensely as they began the bout.

"Letter from Gaheris a week ago," Mordred answered, parrying. "It was posted in the fall, but the messenger only managed to get here. No word since November."

Lance nodded and swiped at him again. "In this case, I think no news is good news."

Mordred nodded, ducking and returning.

"How many?" Lance asked, meaning a number of questions and not really able to articulate any of them.

"Twelve stayed," Mordred answered, managing to answer all Lance's unasked questions. "Including you, twenty-five are back, and we have twenty-eight reported dead. And recent messages from eleven, counting Galahad, Percival, and Lionel."

"Twenty nine still missing, including your brothers."

Mordred nodded. "This quest has destroyed us."

"You don't mean that." They paused and stared at each other for a moment, and then Mordred attacked.

"I mean it," he snarled. "Of the twenty-five only five are fighting fit, counting you. Lord knows when the others will be back. In the last month six women have been raped in towns _less than a day's ride from Camelot_. There have been three murders _inside the town_. Half Arthur's nobles are talking of suing for independence."

Lance was pale as well as falling back under Mordred's onslaught. "I didn't know things were that out of hand."

"It's hard to enforce the law with twelve knights, three of whom can barely get on a horse anymore."

"You blame me?" Lance demanded, pushing Mordred back and attacking himself.

"Not for the state things are in. You did as you felt you must, as did the others. I _do_ blame you for sneaking in in the night and sulking in your room for three days before even telling Arthur you were back."

Lance flinched, more from the words than the blow he only just managed to block. "I was in no fit state to be seen."

"You were sulking," Mordred snapped back. "You're jealous of Galahad and the others, and you're guilty because you think you're not good enough for the quest."

"How can you-?"

"Why do you think I didn't go?" Mordred answered.

Lance stopped in shock before hastily blocking Mordred's swing. "What've you done?" he asked irritably.

Mordred tilted his head sardonically. "I'm a bastard, Lance, in case you forgot."

"That's-"

"Rubbish, I know. So father's told me a million times since the Quest began. But it's why I didn't go. And if me not going for my sins is rubbish, so's you being precluded for yours."

"But you-! It's different. I chose my sins. Your- and it's not a sin! It was thrust upon you."

Mordred shook his head. "Believe as you will. But you're the best knight at court."

"Galahad-"

"Is an arrogant prick," Mordred interrupted. "And the only thing he has on his side is that he's more pious than most priests I've met."

"Then he's-"

"Not a better knight. Not a better man. Just a better Christian. And being Christian and being a knight can't always be the same."

"That's-"

"Blasphemy, I know. But the Good Book says turn the other cheek, and as knights we may do that for ourselves but never for the country. We follow secular laws, not the Laws of Moses, Lance. Piety has its place, but it isn't the be all of knighthood. And you're a better man and a better knight."

"But I-"

"Is it a betrayal if he knows and approves?"

"What-"

"You think he's stupid? Or blind? He knows. And likes that you're happy. He _wants_ you to be happy together."

"But-"

"But nothing," Mordred snapped, parrying and returning a slash.

"Would you let me finish a sentence!" Lance yelled, attacking Mordred in a flurry of blows the younger knight could barely block.

Mordred caught the final blow on his sword, locking them hilt-to-hilt. "Why? I thought I was doing a better job of finishing them."

Lance heaved against Mordred, breaking the lock and stepping back to face him. "You are infuriating!"

Mordred grinned. "I do try."

Lance shook his head. "I think this is a draw."

Mordred opened his mouth.

"No!" Lance shouted quickly, putting one had up. "You win our verbal match! I meant the swordplay."

Mordred smiled. "All right then. I suppose that will do."

Lance met Mordred's eyes. "He really knows?"

Mordred nodded. "Has since I've been here."

Lance nodded. "I should talk to him," he said softly.

"Wash up first," Mordred shouted after him.

Lance made a rude gesture over his shoulder, Mordred's laughter following him out of the fencing courts.

Mordred smiled. One less thing for Arthur to worry about. Now if only he could do something about the nobles…


	4. Of the Coming of Ruin to Camelot

Title: Le Vie de Mordred

Author: Jesse

Rating: PG-13

Warning: violence

Disclaimer: not mine, no money made

Summary: The story Mordred ap Arthur, and the comedy of errors that led to him being marked traitor and coward. Because history depends entirely on the view of who writes it down.

Of the Coming of Ruin to Camelot

Eventually, the other knights trickled back in, along with the message that Galahad, Percival, and Lionel were gone, taken by the Grail to wherever. Mordred did not much care, except that Arthur named his heir the day after the messenger came. Nearly eight years at Arthur's side had cured Mordred of the lingering sense of doubt about his worth in that particular regard, so he knelt at his father's feet during the ceremony and accepted the coronet and his rightful title 'prince,' bestowed by Arthur along with his status as heir, with only a light embarrassment colouring his cheeks.

Of course, he still forgot to answer to his new title, half the time.

"My Prince!"

Mordred twitched around, realising Kay was addressing him and had been for the last several moments. "Sorry, Kay. I was thinking. What is it?"

Kay smiled. "Letter for you, Highness. From your lady mother."

Mordred's eyes climbed into his hairline. Morgause had not written him since his arrival at court.

Kay offered over the parchment with the same fond, half-deferential part-bow he gave Arthur.

Mordred grinned at him. "My thanks, Kay." He broke the seal as soon as he reached his room and skimmed his eyes over the single line of text. 'I am proud of you, my son.' Mordred frowned. In truth, he had not thought on his mother in years, and the last time he had it had only been to realise, distantly, that she was mad. He felt more Arthur's son than Morgause's, though his father had told him once how much he looked like her. He shrugged, dropping the parchment on his desk. He would try to think of a reply later, and he supposed it was good to know both his parents were proud of him given that he had spent his whole life with only the approval of one or the other.

His door banged open. "Did you get one too?" Gaheris asked.

"I think we're supposed to knock now that he's a prince," Gareth said dryly.

Mordred snorted. "If you knocked I would try to find the sorceress that had enchanted my brothers. And complete sentences aid understanding, Gaheris."

"A letter from mother," Gaheris drawled slowly.

Mordred raised his brows. "Of course. Is there a reason I might not've?"

"Gawain didn't. And Gaheris didn't either," Gareth answered. "Agravaine did. And me. And you, apparently."

Gaheris laughed joyfully. "Mordred, do you believe it? Agravaine is one of the 'good children' for once!"

Mordred raised his brows. "And you and Gawain aren't?"

Gareth shook his head. "They've strayed from the path and are swayed by Arthur's lies."

Mordred spluttered.

"Agravaine's letter actually said that. Of course, he doesn't know I read that part." Gaheris shrugged. "I'm rather fond of uncle's lies, actually. All though I'm not sure how getting yourself named heir is _not_ being swayed by his lies."

"Or how I've done anything different than Gawain and Gaheris," Gareth added. "Since apparently I'm not swayed either."

"All of court doesn't love you like they love Gawain and Gaheris?" Mordred suggested.

"They love you too."

Mordred shrugged. "But I'm mother's secret weapon. Of course I'm only getting close enough to stick a knife in his ribs."

Both his brothers stared at him. "Does she _think _that?" Gaheris breathed.

Mordred raised an eyebrow again, mouth curling.

"Yes," Gareth said softly, realising in that moment that she truly did. Gareth touched Mordred's sleeve. "Was she always so mad?"

Mordred nodded. "I think so, Gareth. I think so."

"We really came in to tell you that we're afraid Agravaine is going to do something."

"What?" Mordred asked, instantly concerned. Though Agravaine was the one he got on with the least, he was still Mordred's brother.

"Don't know, but mother's letter told him his plan had merit. I think she must have written you because he wrote her and she assumed you knew his plan." Gaheris had a frown of worry on his face that made him look much like the serious twelve year-old Mordred had left at home all those years ago.

Mordred bit his tongue. That was worse, because it meant not that Agravaine was going to do something to get himself in trouble, he was going to try to hurt Arthur. "I'll keep an eye on him," he promised. "If you will too. And we'll get Gawain in on it. We can keep him out of trouble. We've only been doing it all our lives," he said, aiming for a light tone and only failing a little.

They nodded. "We'll go let Gawain know," Gaheris said.

Mordred nodded and watched them leave, chewing his lip. What could Agravaine be planning to do to hurt Arthur…?

"Mordred," Bedivere said in surprise. "I thought you'd be with Arthur."

"Why?"

Bedivere raised his eyebrows. "Didn't you know? Agravaine demanded an audience right after breakfast this morning."

Mordred frowned. At breakfast this morning… He hissed in horror. At breakfast this morning Gwen had wanted to go riding and asked if Arthur could accompany her, Arthur had claimed work, and asked Lance if he would go in his place. The pleased smile on both their faces had been hard to miss. "Damn," he hissed, and took off running.

Arthur had not arrived yet, though there were a few others aside from Agravaine in the room. He looked up in surprise when Mordred skid into the room at a run. "Don't do this," Mordred hissed when he reached his brother.

Agravaine looked up. "I thought you'd be pleased."

"That you're going to ruin three lives? No!"

Agravaine stared at him. "Mordred, what-"

Arthur entered before he could finish. "Agravaine? What can I do for you?"

"Don't," Mordred pleaded under his breath.

Agravaine sent Mordred a smug look and addressed Arthur. "My liege, I can keep silent on my suspicions no longer. It is my belief that you are being betrayed."

Mordred sent his father an anguished look, but Arthur remained impassive. "Betrayed?"

"Sir Lancelot, Sire. It is my strong belief from his actions that he is betraying you with the Queen."

Arthur steepled his fingers. "A strong accusation, Agravaine. Are you sure you want to make it?"

"Positive. I know what I see, Sire."

Arthur nodded. "If you can bring me proof, then I will attend to the matter."

Agravaine nodded, smiling victoriously, and retreated.

Mordred bowed his head and followed, defeated.

"Gawain!" It had taken Mordred several hours to track down his oldest brother. Hours in which he discovered that Arthur was going hunting overnight with Gareth and Gaheris at Agravaine's suggestion. 'So Agravaine could gather proof,' an explanation Arthur could not deny, not without looking like he was covering for Lance and Gwen.

"Mordred," Gawain said, surprised, taking in Mordred's dishevelled appearance. "What's wrong?"

Still a touch breathless, Mordred gasped out the whole story. "I need you to talk to Lance. Talk him out of going to Gwen tonight. Agravaine's all but laid a trap for them."

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to talk sense into Agravaine. And you know Lance likes you better."

Gawain nodded. Despite Agravaine's tendency to get his back up when Mordred tried to order him, Mordred still had better luck convincing Agravaine to do things he did not want to than any of their other brothers. And Lance's love for Gareth and Gaheris spilled into a fondness for Gawain that Mordred, despite his friendship with the knight, had never managed. "I'll talk to him." They nodded at each other and parted ways.

When they next met it was evening. "Any luck?" Mordred asked.

Gawain shook his head. "Wouldn't pay me any mind. I wish Gaheris were here."

Mordred nodded fervently.

"Tell me you have good news on the Agravaine front."

Mordred shook his head sadly. "Wish I could."

"Shit."

Mordred nodded. "Get the king, Gawain. This isn't going to end well."

Gawain nodded and hurried off.

Mordred sighed softly and went looking for Agravaine to try one more time. The sound of clanging steel had him running. When he rounded the corner, it was to a scene of chaos.

Lancelot fought off a single knight, but both were hindered by the bodies scattered around them. Mordred could see seven fallen, but one body was in the doorway, which suggested there were more in the room behind Lance. As Mordred arrived on the scene at a run, Lance ran his opponent through and brought the blade whipping around at Mordred. It opened a line across Mordred's cheek and he lunged back, nearly falling at the reversal of momentum. "Lance!"

"Mordred?"

The sound of hoofbeats and voices from the courtyard roused him to action. "Get out of here!" Mordred ordered, manhandling Lance out of the mess of bodies.

"Gwen!" Lance said.

Guinevere stood in the doorway. "Go, Lance."

"But you-!"

"Go!" the Queen ordered. "And come back to rescue me."

"Get going, before you have to fight your way out." In Mordred's voice was the unspoken warning, 'Against Arthur.'

Lance squeezed his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mordred." And then he was gone, running down the hall.

Mordred looked at Gwen.

Gwen nodded back into the room. "Sit?" she invited.

Mordred stepped over the fallen carefully, heart breaking a little when saw the one furthest into the room was Agravaine.

Gwen sat in the windowseat, hands tightly knitted in her lap.

Mordred stood silently beside her. They were still thus when Arthur, Gawain, and a group of knights rushed in: side-by-side, white faced and white knuckled, the fine trickle of blood sliding down Mordred's face matching the tear on the Queen's cheek.

Mordred stood silently outside Arthur's study. Arthur, Kay, and Bedivere were holding a closed court session, trying Gwen for adultery. Mordred, as key witness, was waiting in the hall to be called. Gwen was inside, giving what he knew was her confession.

The door opened. "Mordred," Bedivere said gravely.

Mordred nodded and followed the older knight in.

"Know, Prince Mordred, that the laws of chivalry demand total honesty, and a lie here will be on your own conscience as well as punishable by law," Kay informed him evenly.

"I know," Mordred said, voice steady, if a little raw.

"Then do you swear on your word as a knight that all words from henceforth shall be true and honest as though you stood before God?" Bedivere asked.

"I swear," Mordred managed.

"Then tell us what happened," Arthur ordered.

Mordred closed his eyes for one long moment, and then gave his version of events: hearing the fighting, running up, his minor injury, Lancelot's flight—and even his own part in it—and waiting with Guinevere for the arrival of the others.

Arthur sighed softly. "Then it is decided."

Bedivere nodded. "By her own confession and Prince Mordred's testimony."

"Guilty," Kay said softly.

Guinevere, in the corner, nodded solemnly. Mordred thought her very brave.

Arthur's voice broke a little when he spoke, but he mastered himself. "The penalty of such is death by fire."

Guinevere crossed the room to kneel at Arthur's feet. "As I betrayed you, Lord, punish me to the full extent."

Arthur put his hand on her head. "So be it." And if his voice was hoarse, no one present could blame him.

It was even and clear that night when he made the proclamation after the evening meal, and his eyes were dry. Only Mordred had been present for the in-between time, when Arthur's voice had cracked and broken and given out, when his eyes had filled and overfilled, and Mordred had wept with him. And only Mordred heard his whispered, "God, I hope Lance comes."

The day of the execution dawned damp and grey and a fine drizzle blanketed everything, making the gloom complete. Mordred stood silent beside Arthur at the window, watching Guinevere bravely mount the steps. Gawain was looking for Gareth and Gaheris, unable to watch his aunt die.

Arthur leaned heavily on his son, face drawn and pale.

Mordred, too, was pale and gaunt, but the periodic sneezes he struggled to suppress and the rough cough in his chest that came up whenever he moved too quickly suggested illness not worry. He worked though it, doing his best to ignore the weakness and still support his king. He could feel Arthur's tenseness as the executioner carried his torch.

The gateway slammed open and several mounted knights burst in, spreading out and engaging the guards. Lance heeled his charger through the crowd, using the horse's shoulders and the hilt of his sword to press though, only engaging the armed guards at the base of the stake with the actual blade.

When he cut Gwen loose, Arthur sagged so much in relief Mordred was hard pressed to keep them both vertical. "Oh thank God," he whispered, staggering to the chair.

Mordred remained at the window, watching Lance's knights striking out to keep the crowd back as their lord forced free and they fled. "Cleared the gate," Mordred told Arthur, voice slightly nasal from his blocked nose.

Arthur buried his face in his hands. "I shouldn't be so glad to see justice denied."

Mordred touched his shoulder. "Many of us are."

Kay and Bedivere burst in at a run. "Milords," Kay gasped breathlessly. "My Prince, you'll want to go down."

Mordred tilted his head.

"Your brothers," Bedivere said softly.

Mordred darted a look out the window; he could see Gawain, marked by his red hair, kneeling in the melee. His heart clenched and he bolted for the door.

Mordred ignored the coughing fit he could feel building in his chest. No, no, no, he thought desperately. It could not be.

Gawain was kneeling in an empty space near the gate. Gareth's head was in his lap.

Mordred's legs collapsed under him as he skid to a halt beside them. Gaheris looked like he might have been sleeping, if Mordred could ignore the bloody wound across his throat. "No," he choked, lifting Gaheris into his arms. The coughs and sobs got tangled up together until strong arms lifted him back, holding him upright until oxygen finally cleared his blackening vision.

"Come, Highness," Bors' gentle voice said in his ear. "You're in no fit state to be out in this rain."

"Gaheris-" Mordred gasped.

"We'll take care of it," Dagonet promised, touching his shoulder and then crossing to drape an arm around Gawain. "Get out of the damp, Sire."

Mordred sent one desperate glance back at Gawain and his brother's bodies, and then Bors was all but carrying him back into the castle and the world was spinning again. This time, Mordred let the darkness clamouring upward through his vision claim him.

Mordred was back on his feet the next day, though still not truly well, but it was already far too late to stem the budding tide of Gawain's rage. Arthur had already—reluctantly but without much fight—begun preparations for battle with Lance. They were ready to ride out the next day. Mordred, still too sick to ride, was to remain as regent.

"I don't like it," Mordred said quietly, touching Arthur's shoulder as the king prepared to mount his horse. Gawain was already in the saddle, outside gates, waiting at the head of the army.

Arthur shook his head. "I don't know what I think. I just want this whole mess over."

"And me," Mordred agreed. "Don't," Mordred said hoarsely. "Don't get killed. I'm not ready to be king."

Arthur chuckled roughly, the sound barely a laugh. "I'll do my best."

"Ride safe, Sire. God grant you good journeys and a safe return."

"God watch you," Arthur replied, hugging Mordred and mounting.

Mordred watched them ride away, the sick feeling in his stomach nothing to do with the illness sapping his strength.

The return of the remainder of the Knights of the Round Table had quelled most of the nobles' grumblings about independence. Mordred had waged his own private campaign within Camelot and the surrounding towns against the crimes that had begun cropping up again during the Quest. Things were fairly quiet, now, even with most of Knights gone and the King away.

A page came in to Arthur's study. "Prince Mordred," he called.

Mordred glanced up from the reports he was studying. "Yes, what is it?"

"News from the front, sire."

"Any of it good?" Mordred inquired dryly.

The page stuttered, uncertain how to reply to this.

Mordred smiled encouragingly. "What news has my father sent?"

"He and Sir Gawain intend to continue after Lancelot to Banwick, the lands of his father. The church negotiated a peace in regards to the Queen, but Sir Gawain's honour was not resolved in it, and he will follow. The king elected to go with him rather than allow him to go alone."

Mordred nodded. "And the Queen?"

"On her way back to Camelot in the company of Sir Constantine as guard. She's been pardoned and reinstated, at the order of the church."

Mordred nodded. "Very good. Did the messenger say how everyone was?"

The page nodded, understanding exactly what Mordred meant. "The King is well, unharmed and seemingly at peace since the church got involved. Sir Gawain is unhurt, but still beside himself with fury."

Mordred nodded. At this point all he could ask of the Lord for his only surviving brother was that he was unhurt; peace of mind would have to come later, if it came at all. "My thanks, lad. Do you know when the Queen is to arrive?"

"A matter of days, sire. The messenger said she left but a few hours behind him."

"My thanks. You're dismissed."

The boy bowed and darted out. Mordred sighed and got up, intending to go find Kay, before stopping to remind himself that Kay was with Arthur. So was Bedivere. Mordred tilted his head back, thinking. Preparations had been so furious, and he had been so ill, it was hard for him to remember who was at court and who was with Arthur.

Stepping into the hall, he just happened to see Dagonet rounding a corner. "Dagonet!"

"Sire?"

"Are you busy?"

The jester shook his head.

"Do me a favour?"

"Always, Prince Mordred."

Mordred smiled at him. "Tell the housekeeper that Sir Constantine is returning with My Lady the Queen—pardoned and reinstated—within the next few days and their rooms will need to be prepared."

"I'll do that now."

"Many thanks, Dagonet." Mordred turned back into the study, sinking into the chair again with a groan. He hated crop reports, but someone had to do them.

Gwen did not want a feast on her return, saying "Not till Arthur is home." Mordred, with the king gone, had not seen the point of the huge state dinners Camelot usually had. Food was still served in the great hall, but there was little ceremony, and most nights Mordred was not even there. He tended to get caught up in whatever paperwork he was doing.

Aristance, the head servant, Kay's assistant, had taken to bringing Mordred plates in the study if he did not see the Prince at the meal.

Guinevere, her first night back, just happened to see him taking a plate from the kitchen, and followed, curious.

She slipped into the study as Aristance left, looking at Mordred, dark head down over some paper or another, squinting in the poor light with his dinner cooling at his elbow. "Mordred."

He jerked up, startled. "My Lady."

She took the seat across from him, waving him down when he started to stand.

Mordred stood anyway, head dipped politely. "I trust you're well?"

"I'm fine, Mordred. Eat that before it gets cold."

Mordred smiled, picking up the plate. "I'm sorry I didn't greet you today," he said. "Got a report in from Lyonesse that they're short of supplies for the winter; they've been struggling without Tristan."

Gwen nodded warmly. "I know. I figured you were busy. How have things been here, with Arthur gone?"

Mordred tilted his head, lip curling slightly as he hastily swallowed to answer. "Not as bad as it could have been, I suppose. Things have mostly settled since the Grail. Just a great deal of paperwork."

Gwen smiled sympathetically. "This war with Lance can't last forever and they'll come home."

Mordred nodded his agreement. "How were they?" he asked.

Gwen smiled gently. "Arthur looked very well. Relieved the mess was done. Gawain, well…"

Mordred nodded. "But unhurt."

"Yes. Unhurt and sound of judgement. Just terribly angry and terribly sad."

"I can hardly blame him."

"Nor I," she answered. "I don't know that he and I will ever get along again." She hesitated. "You- you aren't angry with me?"

"No," Mordred said honestly. "Nor at Lance. Gareth and Gaheris, it was terrible. But no one was really at fault."

"If we hadn't-"

"In that vein of thought," Mordred interrupted softly, "We may as well blame Agravaine as anyone, because you and Lance weren't hurting anyone. It was Agravaine who put malicious intent into the picture."

Gwen raised her head, tears in her eyes. "Everything's gone so wrong," she whispered.

Mordred knelt beside her chair, wrapping his arms around her. "I know," he murmured. "I know. But we'll come through." Fate, however, seemed determined to make a liar out of him.


	5. Of the Death of King Arthur

Title: Le Vie de Mordred

Author: Jesse

Rating: PG-13

Warning: violence

Disclaimer: not mine, no money made

Summary: The story Mordred ap Arthur, and the comedy of errors that led to him being marked traitor and coward. Because history depends entirely on the view of who writes it down.

Of the Death of King Arthur and Mordred His Son

Scarce weeks later, the messenger came. Mordred was in the study, as he always was, lately.

A page entered at a run. "My lady's fainted!" he cried. "In the Great Hall."

Mordred was on his feet before the boy could finish, and running for the Great Hall with only a hastily muttered, "Thanks."

Dagonet was kneeling beside the Queen, who was on the floor weeping.

Mordred crossed to her, touching her shoulder. "My lady," he murmured.

"Mordred," she sobbed, and flung her arms around his neck, wailing softly into his collar.

Mordred held her, murmuring soothingly until she stopped shaking so badly. "Tell me?" he prompted gently.

Dagonet, white faced and trembling, held out a parchment. "This just came, Sire."

Mordred, one arm still around the shaking Queen, glanced at the letter. He caught the words 'condolences' and 'slain,' took in the shaking Queen and the pale knight, and knew what had happened. He collapsed out of his kneel, sitting gracelessly, eyes closed. "God," he whispered hoarsely, tears on his cheeks. "No." He wanted to scream, wanted to wail and cry and sob. His father was dead and Mordred could not even mourn. He had to take care of Camelot.

For one broken moment, Mordred pressed his face into Guinevere's hair and let the tears come, hot and quick, then he forced himself away and upright. He let Gwen's ladies take charge of her, escort her to her chambers, and looked at Dagonet. "Call the knights still at court to the Table Room in three hours' time," he ordered, "And send a page for Stefan." Stefan was the head of Camelot's messenger corps.

"Aye Sire," Dagonet whispered.

As he left, Mordred wiped his eyes on his sleeve and raised his chin, ignoring the ache in his chest. Bastard or not, he was Arthur's son and heir, and he would do his father proud. There was no other option.

"Mordred," Gwen's voice stopped him a few corridors from the Table Room.

"Gwen," he said softly, dropping all honourifics.

"I can't stay here," she told him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hands were trembling.

Mordred nodded. He understood. He would not want to stay either, except he had to, to carry on Arthur's legacy. "Where will you go?"

"The tower," Gwen answered. "My ladies are going as well. We leave in the morning."

"Send if you need anything," Mordred said fiercely, voice low. "_Anything_."

"I will," she promised. Gwen touched his cheek. "You look so much like him," she murmured, and her eyes filled again. She turned away. "Thank you," she whispered over her shoulder, unable to show him her tears, and then she was gone.

Mordred stood still a moment, then forced his feet to keep moving. In the Table Room, Mordred looked over the curious knights, not even half of their usual number. Instead of sitting in their own seats, they had clustered around his chair. Mordred bit his tongue and crossed to them, taking his own seat. "I'm sorry to have called you from your duties so suddenly," he said, struggling to keep his voice even. "But ill news has come from Banwick."

Immediately, everyone was still.

"My father is dead," Mordred forced himself to say, and if his voice wavered, no one would fault him for it. "God rest his soul."

"How?" Constantine, the son of Cador, the King of Cornwall, Arthur's cousin, whispered.

"An arrow in the eye," Mordred answered. For Constantine, who had lost kin as well as liege, he added, "It was instant."

Constantine nodded his thanks.

"Messengers have already been sent to the Lords," he told them. "And the Queen leaves in the morning for the Tower. She'll not stay any longer."

"Sire," Dagonet said softly. "Have you decided on a date for the coronation?"

Mordred bowed his head. "Nay."

"If I may, lord?" Brunor offered gently, "You've enough to do with ruling. Let us organise the coronation. Three days hence?"

There were murmured affirmations from the others and Mordred could have wept in gratitude. "I could not thank you enough," Mordred answered gruffly.

"Let us take care of it, Sire," Dagonet said firmly.

Mordred nodded, too grateful to speak.

Constantine stood and started giving orders. Dagonet and Brunor took the other knights out, already talking of plans. Constantine touched Mordred's shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Mordred looked at the other man. "What choice do I have?" he asked. "Except to be alright?"

Constantine gripped his shoulder. "Come, my lord. I know you have duties you could share with me. Let me be to you are you were to your father."

Mordred nodded and followed the older knight back to the study. His study, now, his mind reminded him, and he grit his teeth against his grief.

Constantine took the seat across the desk from him and started sorting through pieces of parchment.

They worked in silence for a time, then Constantine said softly, "Sire?"

Mordred raised his head and only when Constantine offered him a handkerchief did he realise he was crying. "I'm sorry," he choked, but once loosed, he could not check back his grief any longer.

Constantine wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "There's no shame in grief, my lord," he murmured, holding Mordred tightly. "There's no reason to apologise."

Mordred shook in the older knight's arms. He wanted to scream with the unfairness of it. How could he be expected to fill Arthur's shoes? How could he be half the king his father had been?

Constantine held Mordred until the young man had cried himself out, and then gently sent him to bed. Mordred went docilely, exhausted with grief and duty, soothed by the murmured, "Things will look better in the morning."

It had been a week since the coronation, quite probably the worst week in Mordred's life. He dealt with all those who were not sure if Arthur's successor would deal with them as fairly as Arthur had. He struggled through constant audiences, listened to complaints, and moderated quarrels. And he did all that while working through his own near-crippling grief.

His first thought when the messenger came in was that it would be a welcome distraction. Then he wondered what else Fate could do to spite him.

"My Lady Guinevere sends a request for aid, Sire," the messenger said politely.

Mordred barely resisted the urge to hit his head on the desk. "Keep going," he prompted.

"A great host of lawless rogues and layabouts have besieged the Tower. She sent me for aid before they cut all connection, and bid me tell you they have supplies within for the next fortnight."

Mordred nodded. "My thanks. Idris!"

One of the pages stuck his head in. "Yes milord?"

"Get this man settled in a room, please, and show him to the kitchen if he's hungry."

"Aye milord," Idris said, bowing and beckoning the man to follow him.

Mordred rested his head on the desk for a moment and then got up. "Constantine," he called as he walked into the Great Hall.

"Milord?"

"Marshall the soldiers and tell everyone to arm up. We ride for the Tower as soon as we are ready."

"Anyone to stay, milord?" Constantine asked.

Mordred shook his head. "Can't spare them. The Queen's in trouble."

"Aye sire."

Mordred nodded and headed for the armoury, pausing along the way only to send a page for the head servant and housekeeper. He started arming himself.

"You know," Dagonet said as he came in. "You have pages for that, Sire."

Mordred flashed him a slight grin. "Aye, I do. But I can do it myself, so why shouldn't I?"

Dagonet inclined his head and begun his own preparation.

When Mordred stepped into the courtyard, a hostler waited with his horse and Aristance and the housekeeper waited side-by-side for his orders.

"Sire?" Aristance asked.

Mordred nodded his thanks, taking his reigns. "Aristance, I trust you and Enide can care for Camelot while the knights and soldiers are away?"

"Of course my lord," Aristance said gravely. The old head servant truthfully, though few knew it, had been a knight under Uther, and this would not be the first time he had been left regent while the king and his knights rode out.

"We'll do our best, Sire," Enide, the housekeeper, added.

Mordred nodded and mounted his horse. "Dagonet," he called. "Wait here for the rest of the knights and soldiers to prepare themselves, then ride after us."

"Aye my lord," Dagonet called.

Mordred looked at Constantine, riding up beside him, and at the lines of soldiers armed and ready in the green beyond the gates. "Let's ride," he ordered, heeling his charger into a lope.

Mordred buried his face in his hands, ignoring the mud and blood smearing from his dirty hands to his similarly dirty face. "How many, Constantine?"

Constantine touched Mordred's shoulder as he sat beside him. "Not too bad, Sire. And they lost far more than we."

It had been three days, three gruelling days of battle and parleys. On the first day the Tower's defences had broken and the rogues had gotten in, though an piece of parchment tied to an arrow told them on the second day that Gwen and her ladies had retreated to the upper floors and were pouring boiling water on anyone who tried to mount the stairs. With Mordred's forces on the outside, no hostages, and all manner of housewares being used as weapons against them from above (one man had fallen out a stair window with a chamber pot on his head), the brigands were weakening, but days of battle wearied everyone. "Any word form Gwen?"

Constantine shook his head. "Though we did hear a rather masculine scream from up there, a bit ago in a lull, so I'd guess her Majesty is holding her own."

Mordred smirked slightly. Gwen was quite a woman. Then he sobered. "I worry about how much food they have. And how much wood, to keep boiling water. And how much water," Mordred added as an afterthought.

Constantine shook his head. "There can't be that many of them left, milord. They've called for a parley—I sent Dagonet. If they don't surrender I'll be surprised."

Mordred smiled briefly, in relief and gratitude. "Thanks."

Constantine tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Thank me by washing up, Sire. You look a sight."

Mordred had just rinsed the grime off when another knight hurried up. "Sire," he gasped.

"What is it, Dinadan?"

"An army, sire," he gasped. He had come at a run. "Approaching from the southeast."

Mordred beckoned Constantine after him. "Show us," he ordered, following the knight to the edge of the camp.

Lit by the setting sun on a hill across from Mordred's camp was indeed an army. Mordred's eyes counted foot soldiers about even with his own forces, though it looked as though the other camp had more knights. He could not make out the banner. "Constantine," he said. "Get your horse and see if they're friend or foe. Let their leader know that if he wishes it, I'll parley in the morning."

"As you say, Sire," Constantine affirmed, and turned to get his horse.

Mordred remained on the edge of camp, watching. He wished he could see the banner. He hoped, desperately, that it was Gawain, home from Banwick, but the knot in his gut told him it was probably one of Arthur's old foes, hoping to take Camelot in the weakness of a new king.

Constantine's figure reached the edge of the camp and there was activity while people came and went from the knight's presence. Finally, Constantine turned away and rode towards camp again. Almost there, he veered to come directly to Mordred.

"Sire," he said, bowing slightly in the saddle. "I did not speak to their leader; apparently his general is injured and he's with him, but it was agreed that you and he should meet between the fields an hour past dawn in the morning."

Mordred nodded. "Well done."

"Sire, I don't like it."

Mordred looked at him.

"They referred to their leader as 'king' and I know of no king who is your ally who would ride here with a force such as that."

Mordred nodded slowly. "I had hoped it was my brother," he said quietly.

"Me too, sire," Constantine agreed sadly.

"Put your horse away," Mordred said. "And get some rest. You'll accompany me in the morning."

"Of course," Constantine said, as though surprised it need to be said.

Mordred smiled and watched him go, thankful to have such a man beside him. Then he turned back to his study of the opposite camp.

Early in the morning servants had set a tent up for the parley in the open ground, and Mordred stood uneasily in it. He was in full armour, but bore no shield and no weapon but the sword sheathed at his waist. Constantine was beside him, similarly attired and armed. They had left their horses at camp, and were all too aware of the tenseness in the air behind them as their men waited for news.

Two men ducked into the tent, one moving slowly and partly supported by the other. They too, wore armour and swords, but bore no shield and no pole arm. Their helmets, like Mordred's and Constantine's, were on their hips, not their heads.

Mordred felt his knees wobble as they straightened. There was no way.

"By Heaven," Constantine whispered.

"Father?" Mordred choked.

"Mordred," Arthur said softly, his face blank.

"God," Mordred choked, stepping forward and hugging Arthur tightly.

Arthur stiffened momentarily.

Mordred immediately stepped back, unable to completely suppress the hurt.

"What's going on?" Arthur demanded.

"I thought you were dead," Mordred managed.

Arthur's whole face changed, softening into sorrow and love, and he dragged Mordred into another hug. "I'm sorry," he murmured into Mordred's ear.

For a moment, Mordred let himself cling to Arthur, and then released his father. "What did you think?"

Arthur glanced at Gawain, who looked pale but seemed steady. "Gawain was injured in a joust with Lance, and we pulled back a bit to let him heal up. While we were waiting, a messenger came, saying you'd told everyone I was dead, taken the throne, and tried to marry Gwen. That she'd locked herself in the Tower to escape you."

Mordred felt another stab of hurt. "You believed that?" He looked between them.

"I could hardly," Gawain said. "But why should a messenger lie?"

"He claimed to be from Gwen," Arthur said.

"If that's true, she's the best actress I've ever seen. She fainted when we got the message of your death. She went to the Tower because Camelot had too many memories."

"And what are you doing here?" Arthur asked.

"Brigands," Mordred answered. "Besieged her. They surrendered yesterday evening."

Arthur nodded, looking at Gawain. "Lance is a few days behind us. When he heard there was trouble in Camelot, he immediately offered his service again. I couldn't turn him down, not so evenly matched as we would have been, were we to actually fight."

"That's good. Perhaps we can get this all straightened out at once. We thought you must have been one of the Northern Kings, come to attack while we were weakened."

"And we thought you were a traitor," Gawain answered. "Now we four know the truth. Time to tell everybody else."

Mordred looked at Arthur. "Why lie?" he asked softly.

"A question for another day, son," Arthur answered, voice just as low. "For now, we should keep the war from staring."

"Right," Mordred said, shaking himself. He followed Constantine out, Arthur beside him, Gawain taking up the rear.

"By Heaven," Constantine swore, leaping to one side as a giant snake lunged at him.

"Mother," Mordred realised with a stab of horror.

"Morgause," Arthur hissed in the same breath.

Constantine drew his sword to kill the snake.

There was a roar from both sides and Arthur swore.

Mordred and Arthur exchanged one, long, horrified look before both ran for their armies, trying to halt the charge started by the flash of steel. And in the chaos, the snake slithered away into the grass.

Mordred stood alone amid the fallen. It was nearing evening now, and he ached to look around to see just how far out of control the situation had spun. His armies had retreated in disarray as the afternoon progressed, and Mordred could not really blame them. Full of the righteousness of fighting a traitor, Arthur's forces had fought determinedly.

Arthur, to his credit, had managed to keep his men from following Mordred's forces in rout.

Mordred bowed his head. There was only one way things could end now.

"Mordred!"

"Father," Mordred called softly.

Arthur crossed to him, face tense. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

Mordred raised his head. "What?"

Arthur shook his head. "Gawain."

Mordred clenched his eyes shut. He could not afford to cry. Not then. "God rest him," he managed hoarsely.

Arthur nodded, seeming to be blinking back his own tears, but it was hard for Mordred to tell through the watering of his own eyes.

"This is a mess," Mordred said.

"I know." Arthur shook his head, despairingly. "I can't see a way out of this."

Mordred smiled sadly. "I can."

"Mordred?"

"The only way this story can end as a triumph for Camelot is for the villain to be defeated."

"There's not one," Arthur argued, seeing where Mordred was going and not liking it.

"There's a hero and a villain in every story, father," Mordred said softly. "Ours is just a little bit wrong. No one ever said the story has to be true. But the story is all the matters. History is written by the victor. And the hero has to win."

"Mordred, no."

Mordred shook his head. "There's no other choice. Camelot has to go on. Chivalry has to go on. And this war, this stupid, senseless killing has to be justified."

Arthur shook his head desperately. "I _can't_. Mordred, don't ask this of me."

"There's nothing else. And it has to be you." Mordred drew his sword.

Arthur stepped back, drawing his own in alarm. "Mordred!"

"There's no choice! If I'm the loser, history will make you the hero and Camelot lives on." Mordred slashed at Arthur, trying to make him fight back.

Arthur blocked. "Mordred, I can't."

They made several passes, Mordred attacking and Arthur parrying and blocking. A hissing drew both their attention.

It was the snake, head up, poised to strike Arthur. Mordred did the only thing he could think of to save his King. He slammed his boot down on the snake's tail, which was just within his range.

Instead of striking Arthur, it whipped around, fangs sinking into Mordred's calf. Mordred beheaded the thing, already feeling the rush of blood to his head from the venom. "Oh God," he whispered, reeling.

"Mordred!"

Mordred turned his eyes upward, meeting Arthur's gaze. "Don't make me die like this," he pleaded softly.

Arthur closed his eyes. "God help me," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Me too," Mordred said, raising his sword so it would look like a fight to anyone watching. But he overestimated his strength, and as Arthur's sword broke through his chest and blackness swam around his eyes, his own sword connected with something, his arms too weak to pull the blow. But he could not recall what or why this was a problem. He felt a brief bout of panic that he could not remember, and then there was nothing, not even forgetfulness.


End file.
